The Second Half

[‘Bestseller’, or “Omozolelov’s passions”] ‘Dimitri Petrovitch!’ someone hailed him, early in the morning, when having narrowly missed banging Dobrolubov with the door, he rushed out into the street. He looked round and saw Dobrolubov hurrying towards him. ‘Good morning,’ said Omozolelov. ‘That’s just what I was about to say, good morning, and you’ve already said it!’ ‘Where are you off to?’ ‘Me?’ marvelled Dobrolubov, ‘Oh! Well Elisabeth the Little and I might go to the museum. And you?’ ‘Ah, well I… yes…’ ‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Dobrolubov, and ran off to the trolley bus stop. Omozolelov went on foot to the side-street where, the day before, he had noticed the little shop. Had he driven – in a taxi, say – he would not have been able to find the place6 to the right of the wide street, through the courtyard and on the left. The pedestrian might well not be able to identify streets from the windows of buses or cars – landscapes are quite unrecognisable, especially if viewed perched above or behind a wheel. He went out on to the boulevard, and suddenly realized: yesterday the boulevard had not existed. Pavel Andreevich and Claudia were sitting on a bench. On seeing Omozolelov, Pavel Andreevich quickly closed his brief-case, but then, seemingly ashamed of his cowardice, not only opened it again, but called out: ‘Dimitri Petrovich,’ and made an expansive welcoming gesture with his hand; He came up to them. He understood at once that he had made an error: it was not Claudia sitting with the man, it was not even the little Elisabeth – Angelina Sergeevna sat side by side with Pavel Andreevich. ‘Have a look, comrade Omozolelov,’ said the latter. Omozolelov peered into the brief-case. It was empty. ‘Excuse me, I’m in a rush,’ he said. And he clambered over the boulevard railings, at the exact spot where, three years before, a big lilac tree had been planted, and had, alas, withered rapidly away. Hard though he was hurrying, he saw Harlamov swiftly overtake him, and dart into a chemists. It came to D.P. that he had been diverted from his path, and he therefore continued straight ahead. But this is not always the out of a rising, not to speak of an already risen, predicament. Omozolelov came to an immediate halt, and barely had time to cross a small courtyard before coming face to face with a high brick wall. Low clouds obscured the top, although it was possible to see that exceedingly prickly barbed wire was strung across the iron bars which jutted out of the brickwork. Here and there, caught on the wire, were hanging torn shirts, a jacket, and even, slightly to the side, an overcoat, rotted, regrettably, almost away. There were no windows in the wall, no doors, not even a hint, however oblique, of a door or a window. Omozolelov D.P. saw at the base of the wall a small bench, and sat down to rest himself. He looked down, almost at his feet lay a heap of interesting rubbish. Here was a derelict armchair, the rusted carcass of a lampshade with the well preserved tatters of a pink fabric, which had almost lost its colour, clinging to it, an old-fashion umbrella sporting a heavy handle, and other junk – the beauty and variety of the forms it contained were beyond description. He examined the rubbish and thought: could it be that these things were really of no further use? Turn away, Dimitri Petrovich! Stop inventing! These things are useless – nay, dangerous – you know that as well as we do, you know it better. We shall stop you, we, thank God, are not butchers. Stop, Omozolelov! But D.P. had already seated himself in the old wing chair. The chair was standing on an open veranda, from which you could see a bed filled with flowering asters. The cool of the evening had sharpened the outlines of the crowns of the lime trees and lilacs. Dimitri Petrovich felt snug: a downy scarf covered his shoulders. He was resting. In his thoughts he wandered the paths of the garden: the fallen leaves, yellow, red, and brown, brought him warm and peace. Below, far below, deep in the ravine, a river ran, blue-black in the evening light. On the river with its black water, floated the deep yellow oval of the reflected sun. Dimitri Petrovich glanced up at the sky: there, high above, reposed the moon. Slowly the evening crept up onto the veranda. He rose, and without letting go of the chair, switched on the light. The glorious orange lampshade transformed the glow of the not very bright lamp: the corners of the veranda grew cosy and warm. Hearing footsteps, he smiled and leant with his hands against the back of the chair. Swinging an umbrella, a young girl was walking along the path towards the house. Dimitri Petrovich had been waiting for her a long time – all day. That morning, too, he had waited for her, when having drunk her fill of cold milk, she had gone headlong along the garden path, towards the bus stop. In the morning she had cried out: ‘See you later!’ Dimitri Petrovich had begun his vigil. And now he heard the steps, the rapid steps of youthful feet, sun-burnt… were they sun-burnt? Oh, sun-burnt feet! ‘Good evening, papa!’ the girl says. Brushes his shoulder with her cheek. He kisses her on the head, catching her hair with his dry lips. He whispers: ‘Hallo, Marina.’ ‘Wait a minute, I’ll hang up my umbrella.’ ‘Your umbrella?’ ‘Yes, this one. It’s torn as a matter of fact. It’s a bit heavy, you see Papa. If you don’t mind, I’ll…’ ‘Marina, you…’ ‘Papa.’ ‘Marina, the fate of the umbrella… it’s roundabout, in a manner of speaking, indirect… Who is that coming, Marina?’ ‘There’s no one there, Papa.’ It was us. We were walking up the path to the veranda, in order to take Dimitri Petrovich by the hand and lead him away. We were about to demolish the false situation into which he had fallen. ‘Can’t you see? Ask him not to come up onto the veranda.’ ‘But… Papa!’ ‘No – don’t let him up. I beg you, Marina.’ We won’t go up onto the veranda, Dimitri Petrovich. We’ll breath the cool air in the garden, where our footsteps are all but silent on the fallen leaves. ‘And the lampshade, Papa! Glass is in fashion now.’ ‘No, we must have the lampshade. Without it…? No, Marina.’ ‘Look Papa, the white asters are shining in the darkness. But we’ll throw out the umbrella and the lampshade, won’t we…’ ‘And old thing, Marina…’ ‘Old! Junk!’ Dimitri Petrovich went into the house. He put the kettle on the kerosene stove, and began to prepare sandwiches. The knife slipped. The knife slid, clumsily somehow, across the forearm. The knife was too sharp for kitchen matters. It clamed new sensations. ‘Marina!’ Dimitri Petrovich shouted. ‘Oh, Papa, oh!’ He went to bed with a bandaged arm. Already ready for sleep, he attempted to read two or three pages of a novel, the name of which ha had long ago forgotten. At the end of eleven lines, he became sleepy and put out the light. We bent over the slumbering man, and said, gently. ‘We thought to take you away, Dimitri Petrovich.’ ‘It’s late,’ he mumbled. It’s not easy for us to go on. But we must speak. We must, of course, be brave, but it’s hard. We peer into the gloom, and discern, with difficulty, the silhouette of the slumberer. He won’t hear us, so we’ll tell ourselves instead of telling him. We peer into the gloom, and see nothing, but speak in a voice so distorted as to be virtually unrecognisable, squeezing it out with our hands at our throat. It’s because we have given no word picture of Marina. Dimitri Petrovich dreamed a dream. He was sitting on a bench, at the base of an unfamiliar brick wall. The sun shone on him. His hands rested in the lap. He gazed straight ahead. His hat, fallen from his head, lay on the ground. Harlamov glanced into the courtyard and vanished again. Dobrolubov glanced in, and forbore to hide himself. He even entered the courtyard, and behind him, as if they were late for an appointment, ran Ukikov and Elisabeth the Little. At their backs appeared Pavel Andreevich and, only later, Givy and Claudia. Harlamov, the scout, strolled in with an air of nonchalance. ‘Harlamov,’ Omozolelov said. ‘He said: Ukikov,’ proclaimed Larissa Ilinichna. ‘Did you go to the museum, comrade Dobrolubov?’ asked D.P., boldly. They all grew agitated. ‘Harlamov went to the museum, not Dobrolubov,’ countered Ukikov, and added a whispered command. The chain of colleagues closed up, and covered the only way out of the courtyard. Behind Omozolelov rose a magnificent brick wall. He was forced to resolve an important tactical question. This he had almost done when, suddenly, in Larissa Ilinichna he recognized Irene, and grew confused. As a matter of fact she was the weak link in the advancing chain. What is more, the little Irene herself, had a weak spot. Omozolelov rose, put his hat on his head, and advanced upon them. He badly wanted to lay back his ears, and switch his tail, but unfortunately had no tail to switch. Ukikov and Dobrolubov took one pace forward in his direction. Omozolelov’s first action was to take his last five rouble bill from his pocket, and tear it into shreds. Givy lost consciousness and crashed to the ground. The second blow delivered by D.P. came with the speed of lightning. ‘Your opinions, Ivan Sergeevich, have been noted down on paper by Hliastikov.’ Ivan Sergeevich would have fallen, but that fool Dobrolubov caught him, and shielded D.P. from Ukikov, buffoon that he was. Omozolelov leapt like a young elk. One or two among them, flung themselves in pursuit, but he dashed into a moving bus and, turning for an instant, kicked Ukikov in the stomach. The doors closed with a bang. Well, Omozolelov saw at once that on his tiny kitchen table there was an envelope. D.P. surmised that Dobrolubov had decided on a fresh tactic. There was no knowing what the envelope might contain, it could even be an ultimatum. By destroying the envelope without further delay, D.P. could deflect that same ultimatum, and in consequence, whatever the circumstances – each and every one familiar to any reasonable man – consign himself to ignorance. Dobrolubov watched him through the half opened door. Omozolelov took the envelope and prepared to unseal it. As it happened, the letter already was unsealed. Apparently it had already been perused, and not just the one time, judging by the way the was completely worn at the folds. The letter had not only been read, but probably, committed to memory and copied. Most likely, the original had been confiscated, and a copy had been inserted into the envelope: he recognized the hand of Hliastikov or, perhaps, Hliastikoff. The note ‘item 48’ had clearly been made by Ukikov. ‘Good day, Arthur Vasilevich!’, D.P. read. ‘On the 8th of June we had a curious happening take place in Smolensk. Nosodeva, the neighbour of Gebelson the prosecutor, went to market to see what there was available. Noting that there was nothing to buy for dinner, she purchased a broom and a loofah. According to her, she then remembered that she already had a broom, and tried and tried to sell the one that she had newly acquired to Panfilow, the investigator, but he refused to buy it, and instead offered to take the loofah of her hands. However Rosodeva decided to keep it for herself as her old, but nevertheless perfectly serviceable, loofah had been removed by her neighbour, investigator Y. ‘Nosodeva prepared to go home, to eat whatever there was to eat, and then to spend some time standing in line. at this moment a spear began to fall from the sky. It was too large not to be noticeable. What is more, the very sky appeared to be pierced. Everyone stopped, as if war had been declared, although it was only the 8th of June. Investigators Hundov, Harlamov and Powderson dropped their mugs in their astonishment, and the beer, regrettably, was spilled. Further, the mugs themselves would have been smashed had they not landed on Bloodovski who was lying asleep on the wooden slats. But that is not the point. ‘The spear having pierced the sky, at one point only for some reason, skewered a cloud, and dragged it towards the earth, which was why everyone seemed to have gone blind. The fog lifted sooner than expected. They all saw that the spear had disappeared, leaving a gap in the sky. During the time of the fog, investigator Panfilow lost his shoes and his briefcase, filled with costly produce. On the ground lay Rosodeva, fatally wounded from head to toe. She had to be taken to the hospital where (since all the beds, of which there were many, seemed to be filled) she was placed on a folding cot. ‘For reasons unknown, she did not die. She even recovered and went off to work, in spite of the pension which had been – if at all possible – promised to her. Soon Kosodeva gave birth to a daughter. A fine child. Black eyes like coal or, to be precise, dark brown. From time to time they shave her small scalp’. All the best, comrades. Mimasow (Head Psychiatrist)’ ‘The little girl has been called Natasha, although Pauline would have been a more suitable name. Dobrolubov came to see us, and ask me to say that he blames no one.’ Omozolelov sensed that someone was breathing into his ear. He turned round. Licking his chapped lips, Givy was reading to the end of the letter. Their eyes met, and then gazed at each other for a long moment, for such a long moment in fact, that Omozolelov had time to put a kettle on to boil, and sauté a potato croquette. Only then did he understand why his neighbour’s eyes appeared to be milky white in colour. Ripples spread along the thin film which covered the eyeballs as if on water beneath gusts of wind. And it was not to be wondered at: the eyes were teeming with white maggots. That evening, Ukikov came smiling into Omozolelov’s room. His smile vanished instantly, as if erased by a damp sponge: D.P. was not in the room! Ukikov rushed to Dobrolubov; the last-named knocked on P. Andreevich’s door. His comrade-in-arms awakened Larissa I. and Elisabeth the Little. She banged on the central heating pipes, and Harlamov immediately appeared in the kitchen. Even Givy, the last person to have seen him, could not explain D.P.’s disappearance. It was established that Claudia had popped out of the hall for a few minutes. Omozolelov must have left the apartment during that time. Clearly Elisabeth must have made a deal with the renegade. However she tried to exonerate herself, her excuses sounded naïve, to put it mildly, and satisfied no one. She had absented herself – absurd though it is to have to say it, and sillier still to hear it told – in answer to a call of nature. This criminal carelessness masquerading as one of nature’s needs, matured into treachery. The little Elisabeth screamed and scratched with her nails, but she was installed without delay in the cupboard of justice. Yes, she had drunk not two cups of tea, as was her wont, but six, which was extremely unlike her. D.P. had slipped away. He understood the full gravity of the ultimatum. He could have done, truth be told, with some advice, but was not going to seek from us. It was, of course, the encounter with Marina which had complicated matters. An encounter which we had not been able to avert. And now Omozolelov D.P. was riding in the trolley bus along the boulevard. He gazed with a curious feeling of pleasure at the slender legs of the girl sitting opposite. He raised his eyes and saw, on the polished knees, an object which he seemed to recognize. The girl was sitting up very straight, and held on her knees a rectangular box, black in colour. The lid of the box was sprinkled with tiny perforations. ‘What’s that?’ asked Omozolelov. ‘Musquash,’ replied the girl politely, stroking the tip of her fur collar. ‘A very beautiful fur,’ he agreed. ‘And what’s that?’ He stretched out his hand towards the little box. The girl’s behaviour was strange. She blushed and made for the exit. Her travelling companion leapt after her, but was too late: the doors banged shut. He spun round. Almost everyone of the women, and even one of the men, was holding a little black box. Or rather, three of the women were in possession of these objects, and – if we are to be truthful – one lady passenger was travelling with a similar box, tied round and round with twine. Omozolelov understood: it was stupid to enquire about things which had entered common usage. To show an interest in the meaning of the box, or in heavy rope of a certain length, or in a sharpened knitting needle, made him look insane or foreign in the eyes of the fleeing girl, or of Givy, or that self-same Irene. No wonder Omozolelov had a need to consult Marina. Or at least, to talk to her. To hear just two or three words, or perhaps even a sentence. To see her! If not close up, then from afar, if not in flesh, then at least in his mind. The old wing chair stood on the boulevard in a snow-bound cul-de-sac. Omozolelov grew uneasy, sensing that a meeting in the open would be dangerous: they could identify him, and more. Actually the meeting was dangerous not so much in itself, but in the consequences. Obviously, if the consequences of a meeting are undesirable, then one can affirm that the meeting itself is not exactly harmless, specifically as the source of fearful consequences. ‘Dimitri Petrovich!’ we shouted, climbing over the boulevard railings. Unfortunately we caught our britches on a piece of ornamental iron work, while he flung himself full-tilt into the chair, virtually vaulted into it, having executed a neat turn in mid air. Removing his hat, he placed it on the damp and fallen leaves. He sat in front of the bed filled with white asters: the petals, bitten by the frost were covered by little black spots. Looking round, he saw that in seven days important changes had taken place. The house had gone. In its place were the remains of the brick foundations, overgrown with weeds. And this was not all. The river had gone, there were no longer any trees, or even shrubs. An area of mown grass stretched before him: yellow stubble in the grip of decay. He sat in the middle of the dead lawn in the old wing chair, facing the flowerbed filled with dying asters. He asked himself whether it was possible that the past should truly perish, and gave himself no answer. He sat bolt upright, hands on knees, and gazed far into the distance to where, on the horizon, mighty clouds were gathering. If asked, D.P. would have, at first, been unable to say which direction was north, which south, which east and which – dammit – was west. Luckily no one, not even he himself, asked him anything at all. The dot grew larger. D.P. would have liked to raise himself a little, in order to see better, but to abandon the chair was risky. As it was, all soon became clear: someone was walking, or, so it appeared, even running towards him. He worried lest this person should fall and break a leg or hip. To walk with a broken leg was difficult, to run almost impossible. The figure was making its way towards Omozolelov D.P. it made better progress than the clouds which were sinking lower and lower, and already crept along the ground. To the right of him, D.P. saw Harlamov, climbing into his overcoat. His neighbour also picked up the hat and handed it to Dobrolubov, who had jumped out from behind the chair. They ran off to meet the advancing figure, which it was now entirely possible to recognize as that of a woman. Omozolelov watched: they the person by the arms and led her off into a thick rust coloured cloud. He leapt up out of the chair, and rushed after them, but Ukikov gave him a blow in the back. D.P. fell face down into a drift of snow. Ukikov jumped on to his back, pulling out a towel. We lunged, hitting Ukikov with a piece of iron. He ran at us. We hit him again, one must assume on the head. The neighbour uttered a profanity. D.P. ran along the boulevard, hatless, clad only in his jacket, brandishing a pencil – on other occasions, this is the way that a youthful investigator might run, having just signed his first ever death warrant. Never mind, it will all shake down in the end. The second coming of the director seemed, to Pavel Andreevich and Dobrolubov, like a hallucination. The others saw it as the realization of far reaching intentions. Omozolelov invested it with no particular significance – or rather, he did not immediately realize the importance of the event. The manufacture of the strips was being abolished. The director had come to sow the seeds of something entirely new and complicated. To Larissa Illinichna, the explanation given by the chief expert sounded like a terrifying fairy tale, or like the dreadful truth, which are often – in fact almost always – one and the same. That which henceforth would provide the raw material, presented itself as a black cardboard rectangle. The proposal was to apply a length of faceted steel piping, and to bang this on the head with a hammer. The blow resulted in a marvellous hole. They were required to make fifty three of these holes, which then, taken altogether, had to form a design: a circle intersected by diameters. Particularly stringent rules were applied to the distance between the holes, equal to one seventh of a match stick or small pencil. The design, the director warned, had to be positioned exactly in the centre of the piece of cardboard, or at any rate, a fraction to the left, or maybe to the right, of centre. It was advisable to have a pair of compasses in order to trace the circumference before drilling the holes. ‘I have a pair.’ Said Omozolelov, evenly. Givy turned milky white eyes in his direction. D.P. noticed that the eyes were no longer seething, but seemed rather to be stagnant. This was not surprising: beneath the thin film covering the eyeballs lay oval grains. ‘What’s the matter with your eyes Givy?’ asked Omozolelov, with unexpected solicitude, and gave a mocking smile. Harlamov giggled approvingly. Givy groaned, as if they’d shut him in the cupboard of justice, and released, into the air about him, an aroma of mothballs. Luckily for Omozolelov, Pavel Andreevich had that day, Thursday, been dismissed by reason of the fact that, liberal that he was, he had thought to drill not fifty-three, but forty-nine, holes, and had thereby brought into question the reliability of the department. And the department had received not just the one thank you for its superlative strips, but two. The first has come from Smolensk. Here it is. ‘Thank you, dear comrades, for the excellent strips. They are of the highest value to our people. They make one want to work even harder. Investigator Panfilov, Investigator of Interesting Matters Harlamov, Investigator of Matters Pertaining to Reading Prikonov, Veterinary Surgeon Luntz, Honoured Veterinary Surgeon In Charge Particularly Important Matters Drinov, and others – in all seven thousand nine hundred and sixty-four signatories.’ The second thank you was sent from Germany, from – as it happens – the better half. Unfortunately no one knew any French, so they were unable to read the letter. It contained a criticism of the strip: the meticulous Germans considered that it should have measured not five, but six or even seven, centimetres or, the devil take it, inches. Having completed fifty-three holes, Omozolelov imagined that he had already come across a similar object. To be honest, he could not recall where and in what circumstances, but decided that one morning he had seen its like. Memories engulfed D.P. He sat at the table, work set aside, and this did not go unperceived by his workmates. Time came for a break. ‘Good day, Tamara,’ said Omozolelov to the shop assistant, when he popped into the haberdashers for a pair of shoelaces. ‘Good day, Gennadi Semenovitch!’ The cheeks of the young woman burst into flames, quite as if Captain Cook had just presented her with a telescope. Meanwhile Dimitri Petrovitch was suffering certain difficulties in reconciling the discrepancies between his name, his patronymic, and his person. It turned out that he did not have enough money for the shoelaces. He bought a button. Slipping somehow, he managed, clumsily, to drop it. The purchase perished beneath the iron heel of an anonymous customer. ‘Be careful,’ Omozolelov said, crossly, trying to fit the broken pieces of the button together. The customer turned round. It was Givy. Dully, he glanced at D.P., and taking a step forward, disappeared into the crowd. ‘Well, how about it, Tamara?’ asked Omozolelov. ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. Her face was, on balance, attractive. A long nose like a knitting needle, and flat almost board-like lips, gave an expression of naïve rapture. ‘And you…’ ‘Yes, of course! I live alone, if you don’t count my friends… they come to see me, but not often.’ ‘I see.’ Tamara belonged to him. They went by tram to the snowy crossroads. The extraordinarily high drifts forced one to speculate. And, sure enough, the which had fallen two years previously, had disappeared under the snow. They had not descended at the stop before, but right here. Omozolelov did not notice Dobrolubov jump out after them, and make off, keeping out of sight for the time being. Soon he let them overtake him, and hid in a doorway. Stepping over the threshold of the apartment, D.P. went straight to a dark green box, which stood on a piece of linen on the window sill. Its top, peppered with tiny holes, intrigued him. He wanted to count the perforations, had already counted twenty-nine, but at this point his activities came to the attention of Tamara. She rushed over, and snatched the box from his hands. His hostess was embarrassed, but also, for some reason, happy. There was in her demeanour something of the young mother – pleased and shy. ‘What’s that?’ ‘That’s a sofa,’ said Tamara pointing at the sofa. ‘Would you like some tea, Gennadi?’ ‘What sort?’ ‘Strong, sweet…’ Dimitri Petrovitch looked at his watch, and experienced a desire to embrace Tamara. To embrace her immediately. To ask her one question. But should he not have some tea first? Haste always gives rise to suspicion. Suspicion leads to checks. Checks are at times, quit simply, essential. For instance, a man is walking along the street, and it becomes imperative to check up on him. Obviously, there’s no managing without a search. ‘Shall I have some tea, Tamara?’ ‘Dear one, will you stir it with a spoon…?’ ‘With a spoon?’ Tamara blushed deeply, and went out. Omozolelov realized that he was alone in the room, and ran to the window. He looked behind the cupboard which obscured the left half of the window, and saw a big round box. With trembling hands, he tore off the lid. Of course, there was nothing in the box. He should have examined the cupboard as well, but the guest could not bring himself to do so. He heard rustling under the sofa, and went down on his hands and knees in order to peer beneath a small sideboard on crooked legs. A large white worm slid behind the wallpaper. There was something glinting in the half-light. He stretched out a hand, and caught hold of it. His finger was pierced with a sudden pain, but he pulled out the object: it was a Christmas tree bauble. A glass chip glittered where it had entered his finger. The warm poked its small sturdy head out from behind the wallpaper, but pull it in again, quickly, frightened by Omozolelov’s gaze. ‘What are you doing there, in the dust, in the dirt, like some kind of prince, eh?’ The guest to his feet. It is possible that, as a result of this sudden movement everything swam before his eyes, but he managed to catch of a figure backing out of the door. ‘Come and have some tea, Gennadi!’ The voice reached him from the kitchen. Where else can a voice reach you from, in a present day flat, consisting of one room and a kitchen? Of course, even in a such an apartment people can talk in various places, but it’s rare. Standing in the doorway, Omozolelov gazed straight into the kitchen, but he saw almost nothing, or rather, he did not see at once. He was obliged to enter. Tamara was pouring out the tea. To all intents and purposes not the first cup, but the fourth or even the fifth. On the table, a gateau was raised in a pleasing parallelepiped: a basket of cakes stood close by, beyond it, a little glass jar filled with jam, and yet another – big this time, enormous in fact – containing candied fruit. Of the sweets, tarts, sugared buns, syrups, chocolate fancies, preserved cranberries and iced bananas, there is really no need to make any mention. Ukikov and Dobrolubov were sitting at the table. Next to them sat Harlamov and Elisabeth the Little. Pavel Andreevich was there too. Anna Illinichna was, for some reason, not present. ‘Hallo, Gennadi,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Tamara has told me all about you. You’re so strong!’ Dobrolubov nodded his head, and began to tuck into the gateau, covering himself immediately in chocolate, and smearing his cheeks with syrup. Pavel Andreevich, too, was eating the gateau, but Elisabeth, quite understandably, preferred one of the little cakes. There was this, too, which it was difficult to fathom: Ukikov cut a slice of gateau and offered it to Harlamov. ‘Well, I am here as Tamara’s guest,’ D.P. explained. Harlamov froze. ‘Tamara?’ he cried, and discretely pushed the morsel offered him by Ukikov towards Pavel Andreevich. ‘This is Claudia, Gennadi Petrovich.’ Omozolelov looked at Tamara, and decided that Harlamov had made an error, as he himself had done in mistaking Dobrolubov for Harlamov, and Harlamov for Pavel Andreevich. Peering into the face of Tamara, he recognized Claudia. ‘Have you just come from the theatre, Dobrolubov?’ ‘Oh, really? Have you just come from the theatre, Dobrolubov?’ echoed Ukikov, and screwed up his eyes as if shielding them from cigarette smoke, although no one there was smoking. Dobrolubov grew pale. ‘But no, not at all. I came straight here – as soon as I’d finished, straight here!’ ‘And so, Dimitri Petrovich…’ said Ukikov, with mockery in his voice, and noisily ingested a chocolate truffle. ‘Drink your tea, Gennadi,’ said the hostess. ‘Dimitri Petrovich,’ corrected Harlamov, and downed a fondant rose. A cup broke, but no one even looked round, although they all exchanged glances. Pavel Andreevich consumed a chocolate puppy dog, and attacked a chocolate Napoleon. ‘So, you are Dimitri Petrovich?’ whispered Claudia, and dropped her cup. It is a merry, easy, thing to tell the truth. And it must be told, although not always. In some situations the truth, spoken aloud, is fatal, whereas falsehood can be a life-saver. In this case, falsehood constitutes honour towards oneself, and what could be put higher than that, under the circumstances familiar to us since childhood? ‘I am Dimitri Petrovich,’ said Dimitri Petrovitch in a hollow voice, sounding like Gennadi obliged to tell a lie. But Omozolelov was speaking, one must assume, the pure and unimagined truth. ‘You tricked me. You lied. You took advantage of my lack of experience.’ Claudia burst into tears, and disposed of an éclair. It appeared to Omozolelov that her manner had something of the uncertain about it, which is inclined to happen when a manner is studied. ‘Oh dear, Dimitri Petrovich! And Claudia, what about Claudia!’ said Pavel Andreevich sternly, laying a number of little marzipan mushrooms with chocolate hats on to his plate. ‘You’re a swine,’ said Claudia, weeping, or more precisely, trying with difficulty to restrain her laughter. ‘I did not mean, I just somehow… and then, the dictates of the heart…’ said Omozolelov, gazing round, and trying to plan his escape route. Harlamov stood in the lobby munching rapidly on a cake. Dobrolubov was positioned in the corridor, in such a way as to have immediately access to both the kitchen and the lobby. ‘Why don’t you, comrade Omozolelov, try a little of this?’ said Ukikov with venom, and cut himself a slice of gateau which he then enriched lavishly with raspberry syrup, and a dexterous sprinkling of castor sugar. Holding the saucer which contained this delicacy, he appeared to squeeze himself out into the hall, and then to change his mind, and come and stand behind Omozolelov. Dimitri Petrovich and Claudia were alone. Claudia threw open the window, and look at him expectantly. How pleasant the breath of a frosty night! Inhaling deeply, the honoured guest glanced out of the window, and did not see the street. He looked at Claudia: she was making tentative movements with her arms, as if caressing a spirit lover. Omozolelov took her by the shoulders and made as if to kiss her on the lips or, one would prefer to believe, on the brow, but thought better of it, and peered into her eyes. He could see no pupils there: filling the eye sockets, lay a white fibrous mass. Suspended from the ceiling, the black sinuous flex terminated in a dusty lamp bulb. This bulb had gone out when the light, deemed unnecessary, had been disconnected. An unambiguous statement to this effect had issued forth from the office of the superintendant of the building, but this idiot Dobrolubov, had forgotten. In the first moment of darkness, Omozolelov fell under the table, and played dead. In the second moment, Ukikov was at the window, and had seized Claudia. D.P. tugged at his foot, Ukikov came crashing down like a felled tree, and Dobrolubov and Harlamov charged in and joined in the mêlée, having convinced themselves that Ukikov would not be able to deal with Omozolelov D.P. alone. The latter inched his way along under the table, and crawled out into the corridor. Grabbing a raincoat, he rushed out onto the stairs, and spent so long running down them, that he began to worry in case he was on the wrong stair-case. Pelting along between the snowdrifts, he heard a squeal come from the sky. A human shadow fell, accompanied by that disagreeable gibbering which so readily betrays a victim of fright. The squealer almost ran into D.P., but he, luckily, managed to dodge by. Caught between the walls of the houses, the echoed fragment of heavy laughter hung at an unseen level, like the tolling of the bell. For a long time, Omozolelov tapped at the window of the Universal Stores with a coin. He worried lest the crisp ringing sound made on the glass be heard by someone in the street, sooner than inside the premises. At last, a figure appeared in the half light of the deserted rooms, and went to open up. Omozolelov ran up to the glass door, and saw at once that it was Tamara. They embraced, but not immediately. D.P. waited until the girl had driven home the bolt, and yawning sweetly, locked the second door, which was also made of glass or more accurately, locked the black metal carcass of the door: the glass had been knocked out the Wednesday before last by some asinine customer. They embraced. His hand slid inside her coat, and recognized that beneath it there was nothing, or rather, what we are in fact trying to say and do say, is that beneath the coat Tamara was naked. She shuddered, feeling Omozolelov’s cold palms. And this is not to be wondered at: every woman in her position would shudder, and, perhaps, even squirm a little. ‘Are you alone?’ asked the gallant. ‘Who me?’ answered the girl. ‘How about you?’ ‘Well, I am with you,’ he joked, and smiled a pitiful smile, which luckily no one could see in the dark. They passed through a narrow door behind the counter. In the quiet stock room the man became a little weary. He sat down in a soft chair, rested his elbows on its arms, and stretched out his feet. There was a smell of moth balls. Bolts of dark blue cloth lay in rolls right up to the ceiling. Tamara lay down on these rolls, and fell asleep. She breathed quietly, like a child, giving the occasional little snore, and now and then scratching herself. D.P. retreated inside himself, and did not immediately notice that Givy stood in the doorway, examining him attentively, and with what seemed to be indifference rather than surprise. They glanced at one another, and then turned towards the snoring Tamara. Her legs protruded from beneath the coat, and would have frozen had it not been for the strong curly black hair, which covered her shins, right down to her very feet. Only the little toe on her right foot was free from hair, and D.P. gazed upon it with compassion, as if upon his own brother. Givy approached the sleeping girl unhurriedly, with relish, ignoring the fact that Omozolelov was sitting close by. An invisible force flung D.P. out of the chair, like a shot from a catapult. The shot struck Givy, and carried him through the door into the actual shop premises. D.P. landed in the spot. They collided. Givy contrived to tear his adversary’s, or to be exact, the girl’s defender’s, shirt. Omozolelov stepped back towards the counter. They weighed in as follows: Omozolelov the taller, but inclined to run to fat rather than muscle. Givy well muscled, but shorter in height. Givy endowed with a strong crop of hair, but ten roubles lighter in salary than Omozolelov. Age! Age was against D.P., but he had experience, gleaned over tens of years of fighting, on his side. Givy armed himself with a wooden measure, D.P. did not even have a pen knife. Ululating, Givy launched himself at his opponent and hit him with the measure. Hit him, the fool, with flat of his weapon, but pinned him nevertheless with his back against the counter. Omozolelov played dead. Givy was already tugging at the waffle-weave towel in his pocket, when D.P.’s right hand, fumbling on the counter, found a metal object with two rings. Twisting the gag in his hands, Givy released the pressure, and was just about to deploy the towel when Omozolelov braced himself, and without difficulty threw off his colleague. Givy’s second attack proved to be less successful, or rather, it proved to be disastrous: Omozolelov held out in front of him the object which turned out to be a long pair of cutting shears. His neighbour ran full tilt upon their points, stomach first, and occasioned himself internal injuries. The roars of a wild boar shook the emporium. So as to restore silence, Omozolelov made use of the towel and gave the full a push. Givy hit the floor with such force, that the perfumery department resounded with the melodic tinkle of scented bottles, vials, glass boxes, jars, and droppers. Oh, it was a long time since Omozolelov had hearkened to celestial music! He saw Givy move, and held his breath. Then he gave the idiot a kick. The thin film covering the eyes balls broke, and released streams of living, fluttering, dust. Moths hovered over the dead man’s face in two little clouds, shaped like mushrooms on thin curly legs. Omozolelov rushed into the stock room. Tamara was no longer under the coat, which was still warm. He ran out and, with relief, saw the girl trying on a fur coat in the glass enclosure of the shop window. The gallant dashed up to Tamara, and put his arms around her: his teeth were chattering with cold and joy. ‘Tamara, I have just… I love you!’ he whispered, feverishly, unbuttoning the buttons on the coat, and numerous other buttons, breaking his nails in his hurry. But Tamara had no intention of giving in. she resisted his efforts to persuade her to lower herself on to the beautiful sea-side shingle, which was strewn over the floor of the shop window, and in fact, to lie down there. He essayed a little force, never doubting that Tamara would find it enjoyable, as, in point of fact, does any woman under specific circumstances. He had fond his heart’s desire! He was so overwhelmed by rapture that he hardly remembered himself, and at one point, remembered nothing at all. Omozolelov kissed her, like a man possessed. He rubbed his face against her flat, boyish chest. He caressed her cool, smooth shoulders. Flinging out her extraordinarily long arms, Tamara did not respond to his caresses, fatigued, apparently, by D.P.’s onslaught. ‘My beloved!’ cried he, ecstatically. ‘You will be always with me! Put your arms around me!’ She did not budge, and he thought that, perhaps, Tamara was hard of hearing. Pulling her strong arms towards him, he joined them around his neck. The extremities came together with difficulty, giving way suddenly, and even with a strange cracking sound, showering his heated neck with abrasive particles. ‘Embrace me!’ shrieked the gallant. He noticed that the arms of his beloved had, in one instant, grown so thin that they seemed more like thick wire than smooth slender limbs. Furthermore, he saw that her arms lay on the shingle, as if she were about to put them under her head. However, their hold was becoming tighter and more resolute – he contributed to this himself. ‘Be more tender, for Christ’s sake, my joy!’ said Omozolelov, in what was more of a croak than a whisper, pressed in a cold and unyielding embrace. He suddenly felt a lack of air, and attempted to get up. He was no allowed to do so. ‘Let go!’ he croaked. Pushing with his hands against the shingle, he tried to raise himself, but the shingle slid away under him, and as for Tamara! Tamara clung about D.P.’s neck. He was forced to brace himself against the beloved face, and strain to get away. Her neck snapped, suddenly, and her head bent back at an angle, but for some reason it did not fall off. Painfully, the man extricated his own head from the encircling arms, scraping the skin on his neck and nape. Having freed himself, his strength left him. A man fighting for his life can show amazing strength or, conversely, amazing feebleness. Quite another thing, once the life has been saved: the man is then useless, or to be more precise, harmful, since his weakness can infect those who still have their own lives to save. Happily, such people did not come to the Universal Stores in the dead of night, and did not see Dimitri Petrovich Omozolelov prostrate in the window. In any case, even if they had, they would have noticed nothing in the murk and gloom. He descended from the window, reeling. Slowly, he approached the rails which supported an abundance of nice new coats. He flung one of these coats over his shoulders, and lingered a long moment in front of the looking glass, trying to determine whether the colour of this new apparel harmonized with that of his dullish eyes. There was not enough light in the premises to be sure. The fact that he was unable to see either the colour of the material or the colour of his irises produced a certain equilibrium in his thoughts: he decided that a better coat was not to be found. He tore the sales ticket from the sleeve, and went out of the shop. On reaching the cross-roads he glanced back and saw the stern features of Dobrolubov behind the glass. Omozolelov began to run. 53 53 53 53 53 53 53 53 53 53 53 53 52 + 1 equals, dammit, fifty-three. Omozolelov was the first to leave work. He was slightly preceded only by Ukikov, if you don’t count Harlamov. The security scout ran off at the sound of the bell which announced the end. To give him his due, he was also always the first to run in when the starting bell was rung. Between these two signals, Harlamov sojourned in regions unknown, but was most often to be seen at home. Dimitri Petrovich wished to buy a little something for supper, but it came to him that the day before, and the day before that, Thursday, he had returned home with copious provisions. Actually, in the time which had elapsed, Omozolelov decided, the stocks might well have run out, and he made his way to the grocers. This, alas, was shut, as was the greengrocers. True, the chemist was open, but he was in perfect health, indeed! He bought a bun in a bread shop and went home. Today he would have consented joyfully to a conversation with someone or other. He looked in on Irene. Harlamov opened the door and said that no one of that name had ever lived there. He even advised a visit to the house superintendant’s office, where the accuracy of his information might be verified from the records. Harlamov clearly did not recognize D.P. Perhaps he thought that it was Dobrolubov who had called. Had Omozolelov indeed been Dobrolubov, Harlamov would have still given the same answer. It follows, therefore, that his mistake was not only forgivable, but might be better termed immaterial. And immaterial error is one that has never taken place, even if it has, since it has no bearing on anything. Errors of this kind have to occur a million times before anyone notices them. Ignite, for instance, one granule of gun powder. No one will even hear it explode – an immaterial error is the same. But if you were to throw a match into a bucket of gunpowder – a lighted match, obviously – things would go differently, although perhaps, not quite so fast. While we’ve been chatting, D.P. has gone a long way. We’ll run to catch him up. We only succeeded in catching Omozolelov up in his room, from whence, naturally, there was nowhere much he could go. Divesting himself of his new little coat, he sat down on the table which had taken place of the sofa. He then tried to sew a button to the coat. The needle arched and pricked his finger. He yelled, as if his nostrils had been torn out, and shoved the finger in his mouth. ‘My little Dimitri!’ he heard, in tender accents. He gave a start, and listened attentively. The voice must have coming from behind him, because he was standing facing the door – which he did not dare open – and there was no one in front of him. The voice undoubtedly belonged to a member of the fair sex, since that of a man, be he investigator or prisoner, has little of the tender about it. ‘Little Dimitri, my dear!’ Omozolelov, forgetting to pull his finger out of his mouth, began to turn slowly round. In doing so, he closed his eyes so as to open them only when he had completed his turn, and thereby heighten the surprise which can, in one out of fifty-three cases, be pleasurable. He opened his eyes, and saw the wallpaper, familiar to the point of spitting blood – it is not easy, eyes shut, to turn round to the precise degree necessary! Burning with curiosity, he decided to sacrifice something of the delight of sweet surprise, and turned abruptly towards the window. There, on the sofa, sat a woman with her back to him. Omozolelov knew her at once: the nape and the crown of the head hairless, a little hair over the ears – this, of course, was the unforgettable image of Claudia. Like a lion stalking through tropical forests, he neared the woman Claudia. Eyes closed, he rubbed his cheek against her ear, coarsened by the meetings it had attended, bristly like the chin of an unshaven man. He kissed her neck and her shoulder. The glance of our tenant fell upon the window sill, and he saw a navy blue box. The lid with its tiny perforation lay beside it. Omozolelov threw himself upon it, and snatched it up. Greedily, he counted the holes, and assured himself that there were exactly fifty-three. He peered into the box and saw a morsel of cheese, disfigured by sharp teeth-marks, and even a little round of sausage. D.P. resolved to ask Claudia to explain the meaning of the little box, and spun round to face her. He at once understood everything. It was the little Irene who sat, smiling happily, on the sofa. Actually, it had always been difficult to tell Irene from Claudia from the back, and indeed, it was not all that easy from the front. Her little jacket, which was almost always hermetically sealed right up to the neck, was unbuttoned. At her breast, her rosy, spurting, firm young breast, she suckled a living being. D.P. stretched out a hand, and stroked the warm little hide. Reluctant, probably, to be distracted from its tasty and nutritious feast, the infant gave a resentful growl. An appalling doubt pierced his heart. ‘Where did you get the milk?’ he asked in a sibilant whisper. Irene’s features took on a disapproving expression. ‘Is that really the point, Dimitri?’ she enquired, trying to remain polite. ‘Where were you the evening of the 4th of January ?’ shrieked Omozolelov, purple with rage. ‘You’re not Harlamov, you have no right to question me,’ answered Irene calmly, and with dignity, but also with exasperation in her voice. ‘Speak!’ D.P., who on the whole had a trusting rather than a jealous nature, squeezed the throat of the woman Irene. He squeezed it with his hands. The newborn hissed and plunged its teeth into his wrist. The little Irene gave a strange hiccup like one receiving extreme unction, and went limp. Fortunately for the young mother, D.P. regained his calm, and turned away to the window. He was conscious of sighs, a series of quiet weeping and lulling noises, accompanied by blissful lip smackings and suckings. ‘What did you call him?’ he asked, leaning against the glass with his burning forehead. ‘Zoë,’ replied Irene, willingly. ‘Dario would have been better.’ ‘There already is a Dario.’ ‘Dolores, then.’ ‘Dolores? Raïsse, Nathalie, Catherine – I went through them all, and then I thought: Zoë!’ Omozolelov was genuinely wounded by his beloved’s inconstancy. And who had taken his place? Ukikov? Or Pavel Andreevich. He, D.P., exchanged for some kind of Harlamov, for Omozolelov? Why, why, why – asked his grieving heart. They didn’t earn more than he did, did they? True, Ukikov’s room was six metres larger than his own. Well honestly, six metres! Given time, Hliastikov the pensioner would die – who knows who would inherit his two metre room. D.P., of course, that’s who! The door was flung open. Strange as it may seem no one came in. Instead, Irene bedded her little Zoë down in the little box, and ran out of the room. D.P. stood ready. It’s always wise to be on the alert, especially for a man who has been abandoned by everybody. At first he thought he would charge out into the corridor, unexpectedly, thus foiling Ukikov’s plan. But Ukikov and Dobrolubov had, of course, foreseen this unexpectedness, had made provision for it in the plan, and consequently, it had lost its identity. From a wise and true remedy it changed into a tactical stupidity. Omozolelov tried to think things through to the final detail. He was not sure, as it happens, where to begin. And indeed, the circumstances were so novel, that he was unable to avail himself of mankind’s store of knowledge. He attempted to apply his own experience, but it so contradicted that thousands of years, that it resembled the ravings of a lunatic. How do you – the blush of shame flooding your white or even slightly yellow cheek – apply your own knowledge? He was, after all, intending to harness knowledge which is never harnessed by anyone! D.P. stroked the leather bolster on the sofa and remember the precious roll of paper. He pulled it out, unrolled it, and went to pin it to the table, only to find that all the drawing pins were spoilt. All of a sudden he was struck by a happy thought. He half lifted the table and lodged the top two corners of the map under the first and second table legs, and the lower corners under the third and fourth. Naturally, there is much, or in any case, a fair amount, that escapes you, absent-minded reader. Were you, in summoning up this scene by using your imagination or some other device, to start counting the table legs in a different sequence, then it might easily fall out that the fourth leg of our table would turn out to be your first, the third – your second, the second – your third, and the first, your fourth leg. Well never mind. Don’t allow yourself to be put off by this perfectly valid line of reasoning. Having crawled under the table, D.P. was now able to examine the map. It goes without saying that it is always a little dark under tables, unless they’re made of glass (this does occur somewhere), and the table belonging to our geographer was made of oak. With difficulty, he distinguished the Baltic sea from the Caspian. It was worse when it came to the towns: he could not make out at all, for example, which was Moscow, and which Peking, or which that self-same Paris. He did however, locate London without too much trouble. With Prague, it was a melancholy state of affairs: at the end of assiduous searches, Omozolelov still could not come up with it. He reasoned that they had forgotten to include on the map, small as it was, even though very beautiful and not without significance. His astonishment knew no bounds, when he was unable to find Smolensk on the map. Here, one would have thought, was Norilsk, and here – dammit – Magadan[1], but where was Smolensk? He lit a match and would have searched for it until his dying day, had he not caught sight of something white emerging from under the door. He crawled towards it, and found a white sheet of paper, which had obviously been pushed through by someone. On the paper was written: ‘Greetings from Smolensk’. Omozolelov handed the paper to Dimitri Petrovich and began to read. Right away, he recognized the handwriting of Hliastikov the pensioner, which flowed or even flew across the page, as if hurrying to reach some destination where it would be read with equal haste, where arrangements would be made to leave, to knock on doors, to enter without formality, to engage in friendly chat, and to issue a courteous invitation to – if you would be so good – the theatre, forever. You could swear on Ukikov’s head, that the letter, or, doubtless, copy, was accurate. Dimitri Petrovich unfolded the sheet of paper, and read it. He read it a second time, and already knew it by heart – to the very last dot. Thus are committed to memory songs of paradise at the very first hearing, thus a glance filled with love, thus is remembered a snowy expanse of land tinged with blue in the dying rays of the sun, and a little light flickering at the window of a faraway house standing on the edge of life. Dimitri Petrovich carefully kissed the crumbling sheet of paper, and closed his eyes. He repeated that which was written, lips moving silently, unwilling to entrust the words to the walls, floor, and ceiling. ‘Papa! I arrived this morning. I’ll be waiting for you this evening at the theatre. Many kisses, my dearest. Marina’ Wednesday, February 12th. Ukikov’s subtle calculations were bearing fruits. He had been waiting twenty-two years for this moment, and was rubbing his hands. Dobrolubov, standing beside him, was also rubbing his hands, and Harlamov, too, rubbed his hands with glee. Under the stern gaze of Dobrolubov, the little Elisabeth even jumped for joy, while rubbing her hands. Dimitri Petrovich looked at his watch, and saw that it had stopped. Ha glanced out of the window, and grew anxious: evening was drawing near. He went up to the calendar and tore off the page on which was marked: February 12th, Wednesday. He kissed the month and the date. After a moment’s thought, he kissed the day of the week, and carefully folded the page from the calendar. There was nowhere to hide it. There was nowhere to hide the letter, either. He lit a match, and consigned the paper to the flames. ‘It’s all quite obvious,’ said Omozolelov. ‘I’m off to the theatre, right away,’ uttered Dimitri Petrovich out loud, and became frightened. The laughter which came from behind the wall was so distinct that it gave Omozolelov pause for thought. Larissa Illinichna merriment was such that Dobrolubov was forced to topple her to the floor and cover her face with a pillow, upon which Harlamov promptly sat. The woman laughed once more, and then stopped. Dimitri Petrovich donned a clean white shirt. He even waved a clothes brush over his jacket, and gave his britches a good shake. ‘How do I look?’ he asked. ‘Not bad, really,’ said Omozolelov, approvingly. ‘You mustn’t go out tonight,’ we said, getting up from the sofa. ‘What do you mean!’ cried Dimitri Petrovich. ‘My daughter, Marina, will be waiting for me.’ ‘Why not to go out?’ Omozolelov enquired, curious. ‘Because…’ ‘Look, I’m getting my things together,’ said Dimitri Petrovich, shouting. ‘I’m putting them in a suitcase, I have on you see! I’ll not come back here tonight. I’ll not come back tomorrow, either. I’ll go away with Marina, dammit. Out of here! Ukikov’s your toady! No, it’s you who are his toady, and all the others – toadies!’ We rushed out into the corridor. Dobrolubov stood in the hall, clutching an awl in his sweaty palm. Givy was twisting the waffle-weave towel. Harlamov was spreading out the volley ball net. Zenaïde the little was climbing into her May Day shoes on high, sharp, heels made of steel. Ukikov fussed around with leggings but ended up in metal-tipped boots. Pavel Andreevich was warming up a little bundle of bicycle wheel spokes on the gas stove. Givy tore out Claudia’s last but one hair. Throwing it in the air, he had at it with a thin long knife, and cut the hair in two. And sniggered contentedly. Hliastikov emerged with his offering: he was sacrificing a little bottle full of greenish urine. We rushed back into the room. Dimitri Petrovich was standing, suitcase in hand, ironed out and tidy, like a laid-out corpse. He stood in the very centre of the room, motionless and solemn, in the attitude of one of those large scale figures which are sometimes depicted standing beside some wonder of nature, in the drawing of the same. The suitcase interfered with accuracy of this image, and we tried to take it from him, but did not succeed in doing so. Dimitri Petrovich hung on to its handle, with an iron grip. No, Dimitri Petrovich, the main thing is to wait. The main thing is not to surrender to the first impulse. But, surrendering he was. A smile played on the face, his eyes were closed. In this thoughts, he went the whole way to the theatre, but did not enter. A tear slid slowly down his cheek, because Marina had thrown herself into his arms and kissed him, kissed him and said ‘Papa!’ ‘Come to your senses, Dimitri Petrovich!’ we cried. He glanced at us, unsmiling. The intelligent grey eyes gazed out with sadness. His manly features, the firm line of his thin, amazed us: we had never noticed them before. We’ll tell him a truth of which he, probably, knows nothing. It’s like this: the letter, copied by Hliastikov, was, to all intents and purposes, sent by Marina. The date, month and day of the week were shown correctly: Ukikov had not ordered the distortion of the date. What matters is this: between the posting of the letter and the delivery of its copy, seven years had elapsed. Ukikov needs to triumph. Hliastikov craves the role of conqueror. And that is how it will end if we allow you to leave this room today. But we shall not allow it. We do not want you to take a step nearer the door. We will not survive your opening of it. You shall not open the door, and go into the corridor. Harlamov shall not jerk the net, you shall not fall, the suitcase shall not burst open to reveal that there is nothing in it. Dobrolubov shall not run up and strike you in the eye with his awl, you shall not scream, shall not attempt to rise, Zenaïde the little shall not leap on to your stomach in her high heeled shoes, nor Ukikov in his boots. Pavel Andreevich shall not come with the molten bicycle wheel spokes and drive home the first, you shall not cry out, shall not feel the second or third, endure the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eleventh. Hliastikov shall not bring his little bottle, shall not sprinkle you, and triumph over you, your daughter’s image shall not rise before your mind’s eye, you shall not rasp out lovingly: ‘Marina…’ ‘Marina,’ Dimitri Petrovich said tenderly, with suffering. ‘Before each departure, it is customary to…’ And Omozolelov sat down on his suitcase. Everything grew still and spacious. Dimitri Petrovich Omozolelov rose, took up his suitcase, and stepped forward. He went up to the door, and sighing deeply, flung it open. Near Moscow 1973 [1] During Stalin’s era Magadan was a sort of capital of his empire of the concentration camps.